22 going on 35+

  I don’t know but every time I hear Taylor Swifts song “22” on the radio or at work on Pandora, I twitch a little. For everyone who does not know, I will be 23 in less than three months. This has slowly sunken into my mind because of all the things it means to me to turn another year older. If you are rolling your eyes and wishing you are 22 like I am, please revert back to my other stories. I am not 22. I am also not a liar. I live the life of someone much older. I have ALWAYS lived a much older life. From dealing with addict parents to tending to my own needs most of my childhood, I was well groomed for parenthood. I just started it at a younger age than most do now. I have been on this earth for nearly twenty three years. But I am an old soul. I am tired and cranky not “confused and carefree”. It is not magical Taylor. Its not. The life you refer to in your silly pop song is that of the fourteen year olds with iphones and short shorts hitting up the Smith Haven mall. Those are the ones mocking exs and wearing vagina length skirts. I am a different breed.
   What gets me about the media and pop culture of the 2000’s is that nothing has to make sense as long as it is catchy. I watch my peers dance and sing to quite awful music because it is on the radio and TV. They don’t question it at all. Not even a little. Poor Taylor, you have stupid fans. I love your voice and cute curly hair. Your old CDs were great. But catchy doesn’t equal good.
   Twenty two does not mean dumb and horny. Not for many women in the world. In fact, I urge readers here to BUY and worship Eve Ensler’s novel “I am an emotional creature”. I wish Eve had catchy phrases on the radio. I picture it like this:
       “I dont know about you, but I’m feeling forty two. But I’m OK with age, wit and maturity is all the rage”.

   This is why I am not a song writer. Or rich. But seriously. Time for a thirty second( or until my fingers go numb) book review. Reading Eve’s book was like reading out of my own teenage diary. And it made me feel like I was understood. Like in the very deepest depths of the world, there were girls like me all struggling to be heard. And because of Eve I could hear them! I could wave to the girl who was hiding out from her rapist in the sex slave market, which her father sold her into. I could talk with the girl making barbie dolls in a dirty factory off in a third world country. I could make her smile and tell her my daughter and I think barbie needs a donut anyways.
What Eve did was more than catchy but magical and mystical. She made an invisible cable and cup phone between girls around the word who are not what Americans define as little or innocent. But as real women. Even at young ages, the knowledge and experience of these girls made them smarter and richer than all of the pop stars I can think of combined. Thanks Eve.
   I do not look forward to twenty three because I know I am facing another year of the awkward in between years I have been trapped in all of this decade. You see, I do not fit in with my peers. And I do not fit in with the parents who are older and married. The ones who chose their position. I am stuck in my own little box because I am also not like other teen moms. I know this. I have tried to connect with many. I am the “lone” wolf. I do not seem to jam with the “22’s” or the “32’s” and heck when I say I feel old, the “42’s” just want to punch me in the throat.
   My knees ache and I get headaches from anxiety. Not from just college life. Or work. Or parenting. From a melting pot of it all. I also have no mommy or daddy to run to. I will not be aired on MTV’s teen mom because I do not do crack and I don’t have parents to dump my kid off on. (Oh I know harsh….but so true). I want to go shopping for groceries. I love couponing. And crafting. I swear pinterest is my best friend. Taylor, are you writing all of this down? I have food stains from my child on my clothes. I have wipes and size 6x under wear in my backpack. While my peers are planning a kegger I am daydreaming of ways to get my kid to eat peas. Taylor. Where the hell is my song?

When will a song make sense to me as much as Eve Ensler does?

feministingmama

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